Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (18 page)

“It’ll be good for his esteem,” Marty said dryly.
 
“I’m happy for him already.”

“You've been to Wood's?”

Marty nodded.
 

“Anything I might have missed?”

Despite the agreement they'd made earlier, Marty was keeping quiet until he knew more about Wood’s case.
 
He wasn't saying a word about the tattoo or the piercing until he knew more.
 
“I doubt it,” he said.
 
“You don't miss a thing.”
 
He paused.
 
“What do you make of the date smeared above her bed?”

“Two of my assistants are looking into that now.
 
One's Goggling, the other is going through old newspapers and court records.
 
Before this happened, I was thinking Wood may have sentenced somebody on November 5th.
 
Maybe they just got their walking papers and decided to pay her a visit."
 
She shrugged.
 
"Or not.
 
I don't know what to think."

“Good,” Marty said.
 
“Because it didn't happen that way.”

She folded her arms.
 
"Then how did it happen?”

He decided he could tell her a little.
 
“Wood wasn't murdered,” he said.
 
“She died of an overdose.
 
Her head was severed approximately nine hours after death.
 
Whoever wrote that date and severed her head knew her.
 
That much we know.”

Jennifer scribbled in her notebook.

Marty lowered his voice.
 
"Our agreement is the same,” he said.
 
“You don't use any of this until I give you the word.
 
If the wrong information gets out, it could ruin this investigation and after what I saw today, I'm not letting that happen.
 
Agreed?”

"Agreed.
 
But I can't keep quiet forever.
 
Every reporter in town is on this case.
 
If I feel somebody is ready to scoop me, I'm going live with it.”

“That's fair.”

“What else do you know?”

He looked up at Hines, who was pressing closer to the Plaza's entrance.
 
If Marty was going to get inside, he needed to join him fast.
 
"I'm about to find out.
 
I'll call you tonight if I have anything.”
 
With Wolfhagen in New York, he wouldn't have to go to California.
 
He could watch him here.

“I've got a better idea.
 
Why don't we meet at my place tonight?”

He was surprised by the invitation.
 
“Sorry,” he said.
 
“I'm busy.”
 
If Wolfhagen went out, Marty planned on tailing him, just as Maggie Cain would expect him to do.
 
“It'll have to be by phone.”

“Then call me at eight.
 
You know the number.
 
And try not to be late.
 
With Wolfhagen here in New York, I might be going out myself.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On the Plaza's fourth floor, a young officer nodded at Hines and Marty as they approached room 406.
 
Sunburned and thin with an easy smile and an easier laugh, he was leaning against the door with an attitude that suggested none of this touched him, the fact that he was guarding a federal court justice's head in one of the world's most exclusive hotels.
 
He didn't know Marty and stared openly at him.
 

“Who's this?” he asked Hines.
  

Hines looked down at him, his patience still short from his run-in with the press.
 
“What the hell do you care?”

“I'm supposed to ask.”

“Is that so?” Hines said.
 
“Well, how about that.
 
You asked.”
 

He opened the door and they looked inside.
 
Carlo Skeen, the M.E., was standing at the far end of the room, changing the lens on his camera with gloved hands.
 
His eyes flicked up and met Marty’s.
 
They nodded at each other.

“You might want to plug your noses,” the kid said with a grimace.
 
“It's pretty bad in there.
 
Smells like she's been dead for weeks.”

Hines leveled him with a look.
 
“Remember that smell,” he said as they stepped past him.
 
“One of these days, it’ll be you.”
   

Despite the warning, nothing could have prepared them for the smell.
 
The air reeked of death.
 
Hines expelled a rush of air through his nose; Marty caught his breath and held it.
 
He was about to move farther into the room when a sergeant he’d known for years came forward to enter their names, time of arrival and Hines' shield number into the crime scene log.
 

He nodded at Marty.
 
“How's it goin', Spellman?
 
Long time no see.”

“No offense, O'Hara, but I could have waited longer.”
 
He looked across the room to Skeen, who now was taking photos of the large blue Tiffany box placed in the center of a shiny round table.
 
In it, Marty could just make out the top of Judge Wood's head.

“What time did it arrive?” Hines asked.

“Ten thirty,” O'Hara said.
 
“By messenger.”

“I don't suppose anyone got an ID on the messenger?”

The man looked at him with raised eyebrows.
 
“You're kidding, right?
 
The stuck-up pricks at the front desk say they know nothing.
 
Couldn't even give us the color of the perp's hair.
 
May have been brown, may have been black.
 
Some chick with a stick up her ass thought it was a woman, her hair pulled up in a cap.
 
Who knows?
 
Just dropped it off for Wolfhagen and took off out the door.
 
It's not like they're trained to notice these things, Mike.
 
They check people in, they check people out.
 
That's their job.
 
That's their miserable fucking lives.”

"They have surveillance cameras here," Hines said.
 
"Did you get the footage?"

The surprise in the man's eyes gave him away.
 
"Working on it."

"Right.
 
Where's Wolfhagen?”

“Downtown with the chief.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I was first on scene.”

“So, talk.”

“He's scared.
 
Freaked out.
 
When I got here, he was standing in the middle of the room, starin' at that box like it held the truth to every one of his nightmares.”
 
He pointed beside the unmade bed, where there was a dark stain on the carpet.
 
“He lost it after opening the package.
 
Tried to make it to the bathroom but couldn't.
 
After washing out his mouth, he called the front desk, who called us.
 
We got here in ten.”

“Along with the press,” Hines grumbled.
 
He started toward the box.
 
Marty and O'Hara followed.
 
“Wolfhagen happen to mention what he did last night?
 
Where he went?
 
We know he checked in around seven.
 
I assume he didn't stay in.”

“He didn't,” O'Hara said.
 
“He ate dinner in his room, then left to visit his wife.
 
Or is it his ex-wife?
 
They divorced yet?”

“On the verge,” Marty said.
 
He looked at Hines, then at O'Hara as Skeen's camera flashed.
 
They stopped just short of Wood's head.
 
“What time did he get back in?”

“This morning,” O'Hara said.
 
“About an hour before he received the package.”

“He spent the night with her?”

“That's what he said.”

“Has she confirmed that?”

“We haven't contacted her yet.”

“Don't,” Hines said.
 
“I'll talk to her myself.”
 
He looked at Skeen, who was standing behind the table, writing something down on a note pad.
 
“Mind if we take a look, Carlo?”

Skeen shrugged.
 
“Why not?
 
Green’s your color.”

“Shit like this don’t bother me.”

"We'll see."

Hines peered inside the box.
 
Marty hesitated, then did the same.
 

Wood's neck had been severed at such a steep angle that her head leaned back against the stained cardboard, her ruined face lifted to his.
 
In a flash, Marty saw the sagging curve of her grayish right cheek, the fleshy hook of her twisted nose, the torn lips drawn back in horror over teeth that had been smashed to dust.
 

Wood’s skull no longer had the gentle curve of the living--it had been crushed by something blunt.
 
Blood and bits of bone peppered her face in a swirl of scarlet.
 
Her light blonde hair was now a deep reddish brown and matted in thick, coagulated clumps.
 
Her eyes were missing.
 
Someone had gouged them out.
 

Marty looked away.
 
Wood had been dead nine hours and still someone had done this to her.
 
She cheated them of murdering her, so they smashed her face, ripped off her head and sodomized her to satisfy their rage.
 

This was personal.

But would Wolfhagen have done this?
 
The man had motive, but would he have gone this far after so much time?
 

Hines turned to O’Hara.
 
“Why’s Wolfhagen in New York?”

“Never said.”

“Didn't you ask?”

“No,” O'Hara said.
 
“I didn't.
 
The guy wasn't exactly in one piece when I got here.”

“Neither was Wood,” Skeen said, and the young officer at the front of the room barked out a laugh.

Hines wanted to smack the kid.
 
“He thought the box was a gift?”

“It had pretty ribbons on it.
 
Wouldn’t you?”

“He must have smelled it.”

“Her head was sealed in plastic,” Skeen said.
 
"Likely to prevent leakage, but also to conceal odor."

“Who’d he think it was from?”

“He didn't know,” O’Hara said.
 
“People like him are used to getting gifts.”

“What was his reaction when he opened the box?”

“I told you,” O'Hara said.
 
“The man freaked.
 
Seeing Wood's head scared the shit out of him.”

“And it's your opinion that his reaction was genuine?
 
Not rehearsed?”